Then again, if I could have afforded Ralph Lauren clothes, I probably wouldn’t have been hacking in the first place.
While the prosecuting attorney presents the DUI case they’re about to try, I work on accessing Bay’s BlackBerry. It takes me a few minutes before I can pick up his cell remotely—gotta love it when someone’s logged on to a public WiFi—and start working through his in-box. Work stuff . . . work stuff . . . dentist appointment reminder . . . calendar invitations . . . more work stuff. Bay’s campaign manager sent a list of last election’s top donors, and, surprisingly, Lauren’s parents are in the top three. Other than that, there’s nothing.
Until I get to the very bottom.
Almost a week ago, Bay received an email confirmation from Barton & Moore Security detailing his recent order. From the looks of it, the judge has gone all out: security cameras, motion detectors, and panic buttons in the bedrooms. He’s seriously freaked and that’s a serious problem for me.
It doesn’t say anything about beefing up the family’s internet security, but considering it’s Barton & Moore, they’ll have something in mind for that as well. I scroll down, skimming the rest of the email for anything else that’s going to make my life harder, and that’s when I see it. The entire email chain between the security firm and Bay started with a single email sent to Bay’s personal account. The sender used a Yahoo! email address and there’s no subject, just two words that make my skin prickle:
Remember Me
Same words that were carved onto the dead girl’s chest. Within two minutes of receiving the message, Bay had forwarded it to his contact at Barton & Moore. Interesting. Apparently, whatever he’s supposed to remember upset him.
As I watch, another email comes through. Barton & Moore again. This time, they’re confirming security guards will be arriving tonight. Understandable, considering the murder.
It doesn’t explain why the whole security upgrade started a week ago though, well before the death.
Unless Bay suspected something like that might happen.
To my right, someone slides down the bench and turns in my direction. I watch the figure from the corner of my eye, and when it starts to edge closer, I minimize Bay’s in-box and pull up a Word document.
“You working on Farenstein’s report?”
Ian Bay. I turn slowly to face him and he’s closer than I would like. Much closer.
“Yeah, I am,” I say, and have to arrange my features so I don’t look so confused. Ian is a weird hybrid at our school. He’s too clumsy to be athletic, too knife-faced to be good-looking, but I guess money gives him a pass because he hangs around the popular kids.
Actually, I should say he tries to hang around the popular kids. I don’t think many of them actually like him.
“You working on the report too?” I ask.
“Already finished it.” He nods in his dad’s direction, a fringe of dark hair falling across his forehead. “Kind of the family business.”
Yeah, no shit. But I smile like that’s a brilliant observation on Ian’s part and that makes Ian smile wider.
“So I’ve been seeing you around more, Wick.”
Huh? I’ve been around. Ian and I have attended the same schools for the past five years. I watched him lose his mom to cancer, heard about his dad getting remarried, and his older brother, Kyle, running off with some chick. I know about him the way everyone around Peachtree City knows about him . . . and me, I guess. There are rumors. People talk. But dead moms and dysfunctional families are everyday news. It’s Ian’s dad who makes it special, makes him special. Anyway, it’s highly unlikely he hasn’t seen me.
Then I notice the way Ian’s eyes inch over my hair. Usually, it’s purple or pink or, more recently, Kool-Aid red. Right now it’s blond.
Like the girls I see him following around at school.
Suddenly, the way Ian was staring at me last night and the way he’s staring at me right now start to make sense.
Can I throw up?
I try to scoot sideways, run into the end of the bench. “I guess I’ve been getting out more.”
“Yeah, must be hard going around town with your mom and all.”
I stiffen. My mom. This time, the word means Bren. “Why would it be hard?”
“Well, you know, because of . . .” Ian lifts one shoulder, eyes rolling in his head because I’m supposed to get the implication and play along.
And I’m not.
“No, I don’t know.” I stuff my laptop into my bag, tug the strap onto my shoulder. I want a copy of that Remember Me email, but not enough to risk it with the judge’s kid sitting next to me. “Bren has nothing to hide.”
Ian blinks. “Oh, yeah, agreed. I mean, of course. I wasn’t saying—”